Banshee Girl, our 4-year-old boozehound, looking vague and bombed, sipping the Easter brunch screwdriver that’s clearly being handed to her by some other older boozehound.
Witness the guilty enabling hand!
So sad. Shameful, really. I would have intervened but, eh, I was drunk and her end of the table was really far away.
My dad took the whole family to brunch on Easter Sunday. We sat, all 14 of us, under filtered sunlight in a lovely but slightly too warm atrium. Banshee Boy, whom we now call Happy Jack, was dressed up in his Easter duds, looking almost like a little man if it weren’t for those perfectly round, perfectly smooth, perpetually flushed cheeks. He sat in the highchair the server brought for him and ate torn-off pieces of waffle or pancake or whatever he could stuff in his always smiling, 4-toothed mouth.
He was such a good little boy. Frankly, I always cringe when I’m in a restaurant and diners sitting near me have a baby or a toddler. My thriving inner curmudgeon waits for the screaming or the crying or the food throwing to begin. Once those things do happen, as my inner curmudgeon predicted and possibly even willed just so I’d have something to curmudge about, I scowl openly at the parents who don’t take the child outside or discourage wasteful pancake throwing.
But Happy Jack did none of those things.
Okay. Sure, he did — every few minutes — glance around our table, blue eyes bright with glee, and let out a short little crow of delight that was, yes, a bit loud and kind of high-pitched, but it wasn’t distress or anger or frustration. It didn’t precede a bout of waffle throwing or highchair thrashing. No, the kid would smile big enough to break his apple cheeks and just ….. crow. It was more like a little screech of joy. My brother would dutifully shush him, but the outbursts weren’t sustained enough to necessitate his removal and they weren’t tantrums either. It was just a mini eruption, done with such obvious delight that the diners around us began to smile too. They would poke each other, chuckle, and point to the roly poly little boy in his highchair, expressing his happiness in the only way he could think of:
By crowing.
He actually became quite a popular figure in that lovely but slightly too warm atrium.
And here is our Happy Jack, caught mid crow:
Banshee Boy and Girl experiencing his first snow a few weeks ago.
It …… was not his favorite thing so far in his 14 months of life.
(And, Banshee Girl? “Polo Princess”? Whaddup widdat?? Must have gotten that from the other side of the family.)
(Banshee Boy on the trampoline with Tee Tee)
In case you haven’t noticed, I have a terrible incurable crush. He is the jolliest baby I have ever seen.
A mish-mash for you. Right now, I am loving ………
This television:
~ The Walking Dead. Yes, okay, a show about zombies. MB and I are watching it on Netflix which means we’re behind and have to wait until God knows when to see the current (or rather, just ended) season. I wonder if it’s odd that I basically emailed my friend Cara a while back telling her, “I watch this show about rotting zombies and think of you” because we both have a weird zombie affinity. Who wouldn’t want a friend to tell her that? It’s a Hallmark sentiment is what it is. Lovely. Seriously, though, loving that show. Yes, it’s kind of gross, which I think means there’s something a bit off about me, but we pretty much knew that already.
~ Smash. You know, I grow weary of the theatre snobs (and I am one) who whine about this show and say, “Oh, but it’s not really like that or this or that.” Of course not and so what? And crime scene investigations aren’t like CSI(s) and doctors aren’t like House and high school isn’t like Glee. These are dramas, fantasies, pretend. Pretend. There are elements of truth in any well-done fiction, but fiction by definition means invention, so it’s difficult for me to understand the pinchiness and snootiness about the show except that it’s pinchiness and snootiness simply for the sake of being pinchy and snooty which I find a total bore. Criticize Smash because it doesn’t work as a show, in your opinion, but don’t criticize it because it’s not “real” enough for you. It’s not reality television (which isn’t “real” either). It’s not a documentary. It’s a TV drama/fantasy and Broadway’s image or success won’t be tarnished by it. Broadway thrives or struggles entirely apart from Smash. Actually, it may even make fans of the show want to see more live theatre. Courtesy of the great Marc Shaiman, Smash has some really wonderful original songs being staged like Broadway musical numbers. I love that the show is doing that because it ups the wow factor. It shows, in small bits, just how great, how thrilling musical theatre can be. Come see us. Here’s a peek at what you get. And what’s wrong with that? I think that’s fantastic for Broadway. I’ve seen so many comments from average viewers saying, “Are they actually ever going to produce this Marilyn musical on Broadway?? I totally want to see it!” — that kind of thing. So how is that a bad thing for Broadway? Don’t poo poo just to poo poo, ya pooers. Frankly, I think Katharine McPhee, who rubbed me a bit wrong as herself on American Idol, is a revelation as someone else in this show. She glows. She soars. That girl is becoming every inch the star. And Megan Hilty as Ivy, her nemesis? Va-va-va-voooom. Sex goddess with a voice to match. Frankly, I don’t care what they’re doing. I don’t care how “real” or “unreal” it is. I am gobbling it up.
This movie:
~ Pearl Fryar, the self-taught topiary artist who singlehandedly transformed not just his own yard but his neighborhood and his little struggling Southern town too. A Man Named Pearl is a must-see documentary. We watched a week ago and just fell in love with him, his spirit, his passion, his sweetness. He had a 3-minute instruction on topiaries at a nursery. That is the extent of his training. What he created from there …… well, it really needs to be seen to be believed. The man is a true artist but a true gentle spirit too — a gentle man and a gentleman. No ego there. Just the pure joy of creation. That’s what pours from him. His topiaries are not elephants and giraffes, either. They’re complex organic shapes created with nothing more complicated than a hedge trimmer. Amazing. It’s one of my favorite things: to see what someone has inside of them made manifest in time and space. This work is what’s inside Pearl Fryar. I loved seeing how his neighbors caught the topiary bug as well, shaping their bushes and hedges and trees into their own little topiary visions with Pearl’s help and tutelage. At one point in the film, he says that is his favorite thing — seeing what others are creating, seeing them catch the spark as well. Now that’s creative generosity. He has no investment in being the “only one” doing this. It’s about the act of creation, not his creative ego. Creativity is meant to be shared, not hoarded, and Pearl openly shares his. He makes his gardens available for viewing 5 days a week. You can give a donation — or not. He’s frequently seen out in his yard, chatting up the tourists who come by, answering their endless questions. During one visit, he even promises one wide-eyed little boy that he can come be his apprentice when he gets a little older. He goes and talks about his work at local colleges to rapt eager students. His work has made him a celebrity and taken his town from Nowheresville, USA to Southern tourist destination, but that doesn’t change Pearl at all. He’s still out in his yard every day, often until after the sun goes down, trimming and shaping and tending to his passion. This is a man whose passion makes him focused but generous too. It’s not something he owns, you see? It’s something bigger than himself and he understands that, so it’s something he gives back easily and with an open hand.
Also, there’s this: Dude was 66 when the movie was made (about 6 years ago) and, well, he’s hot. The local garden club ladies drive up in buses to tour his yard, get out, take a gander at him, and comment on his hotness, flushed and flustered by the nearness of this gentle manly man. It’s hilarious. His wife just rolls his eyes, understanding that in this way, she needs to share him. This whole crazy thing is bigger than both of them, but they take it all in with graciousness and equanimity and good humor. Beautiful people. Beautiful work. A truly inspiring film.
This, on the home front:
~ Banshee Boy dances to the opening refrain of “Under Pressure” (or “Ice, Ice, Baby” — if you must). All it takes to get him going is to hum that opening “do do do dodo do doon” and he’s smiling and, quite literally, shaking his be-diapered booty. He also does a mean march/toddle/kick box to “Happy Jack.” It’s a pretty big kick he’s worked into this routine, and I really don’t know how he doesn’t fall down doing it, but apparently, that kid is alls about the rhythm. He’s crazy for it.
~ He goes to bed with 3 pacifiers. One in his mouth and one in each hand. You can watch him on the video monitor (how do parents get any sleep with that?) and see him sit in his crib, rotating them from hand to mouth in regular succession, until he falls unconscious from the sheer exhaustion of “passy” management.
~ He can’t say Tee Tee yet, so for now, I am Tuh Tuh. As long as this doesn’t morph into Ta Ta — which I can feel a’comin’ — I am fine with it.
Tuh Tuh out.
Original Banshee, on the left, “playing” the trumpet. She opens in The Music Man next weekend. Cannot wait to see it.
Look at her, shooting joy out of the corners of her eyes.
I seriously can’t bear it. I laugh/cried my way through The Sound of Music last year when she played Gretl. (I have yet to even write about that evening but I intend to.)
It sounds, well, egotistical to say, I suppose, but there were moments when she was onstage when I literally saw myself in her. I’ve noticed it before in her and MB has too. She was only 7 last year, the youngest Von Trapp kid in the play, but she stole that show. I know, I’m her aunt. I would think that, right? But I’m also an actress and I know when someone is stealing the show. That kid has a presence onstage but also knows how to BE present onstage. No one has taught her that. It’s just something she already has. Some of her expressions onstage, the way she uses her eyes, I …. saw myself.
No, she’s not my daughter; she’s my niece, but I guess it makes that childless and wounded part of my heart hurt less to see a little bit of me live on in her.
I think I’m allowed to see that, just a little bit, aren’t I?
(Also, whoever decided to give the littlest kid in the photo the biggest instrument, good job. It works. It’s funny.)
“Fyi..tomorrow is “t” day for (Banshee Girl) at preschool! She decided on her own to take a picture of Aunt “T-T”…that’s the way she spelled it…because it would be a double “T”!”
(Signed, sister-in-law)
Because, pippa, obviously T stands for Tee Tee and all the little children need to learn this. Not tree or train or tomahawk.
Tee Tee.
Seriously, though, so cute.
(And, actually, Trace, the teacher might not like it if Banshee Girl were to bring in a tomahawk for T day, scaring the kiddos and all.)
On the other hand, who knows what that picture of me looks like??
I am now picturing all the little preschoolers sobbing into their mother’s arms at day’s end because of some horrible scary picture of “T-T.” Note to self: Fewer pictures of Tee Tee; more tomahawks.
BB: Tee Tee. Vhy you lef at me? Vhy? I just lie here, dat is all, and still you lef at me. I not understand you. Vhy you shake so much? Vhy your face so red? I do nutting! So vhy you lef at me, Tee Tee??
ME: Uhm, Banshee Boy?
BB: Yes, Tee Tee, vhat you vant? I vedy busy.
ME: You are?
BB: Yes. Vedy.
ME: Seriously you are?
BB: Yes, Tee Tee! Can’t you see? I vedy busy.
ME: Wow. Uhm, okay. Well, you know — I’m sorry, I just have to say this and I suppose it’s none of my business, but you seem like you’re just ….. kind of …… showing off ……..and, well, strutting, you see, is the word that comes to mind.
BB: I not know vhat you talk about. Vhat is dis verd? “Strudding”?
ME: Well, it’s when you know you look good —
BB: Vhich I do.
ME: Right. And that’s my point. So you know you look good and you kind of …. show off a bit because you feel good about looking good.
BB: No, Tee Tee! I not do dat! How I do someting vhen I not know vhat someting is? But I do look goot in dese jeans.
ME: You do, Banshee Boy. But no strutting, I guess?
BB: No! Dis is crazy talk! I outraged!
ME: Uh, sorry. I just thought —
BB: No, Tee Tee! Dat is de problem! You no tink! You just bladder!
ME: “Bladder”?
BB: Yes! Dis is vhat I say. Bladder. Talk, talk, talk. No tink.
ME: Uhm, sorry, Banshee Boy.
BB: It’s hokay, Tee Tee. Now please to leaf me alone to valk dis vay den dat vay den dis vay again.
ME: Uh, sure.
BB: But I just valking like normal boy.
ME: Of course.
BB: Not dis crazy strudding ting you say.
ME: Right.
BB: Now please to moof. You are blocking my vay.
Mere moments later ……..
ME: So, Banshee Boy.
BB: Yes, Tee Tee, vhat? You are vedy demanding today.
ME: Well, it’s just curious to me.
BB: Vhat?
ME: Well, okay. You just finished not strutting and now —
BB: I just tired from all de valking.
ME: You’re never tired.
BB: You do not know me so vell, Tee Tee. I sometimes tired.
ME: So you’re just tired then?
BB: Yes.
ME: From all the “walking”?
BB: Yes!
ME: So I guess I should assume you are definitely not posing right now?
BB: Again, Tee Tee, you use veird verds I not understand.
ME: You are not showing off your tight jeans and/or your belly?
BB: Is dat vhat dis posing ting is?
ME: Well, in this situation, yes.
BB: Den I vedy much not do dat.
ME: Right.
BB: But you do see de jeans, den?
ME: Oh, yes.
BB: And de belly?
ME: Yes, Banshee Boy. It’s pretty hard to miss. I actually think I see the outline of your left kidney where the jeans press down on it. We could have Thanksgiving dinner on that belly.
BB: You no need to be hurtful, Tee Tee. I just a tired boy vid a healty appetite. Dat is all dat is goink on here.
ME: Good to know.
BB: Now please right now to take my photo.
Elder Nephew, dressed up and smirking.
The smirk is killing me. Sometimes, you just need to see a good smirk, you know?
